


Now in Debt

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Underage Drinking, first ever TW fic, one-sided romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 16:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alison and Scott break the news to Stiles that he’s evidently been harboring a long time love for Scott, and Stiles drowns the revelation in his dad’s whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now in Debt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chelsea](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Chelsea).



> Dedicated to Chelsea for getting me into this fandom <3

Stiles is sitting, complacent and perfectly content to simply watch practice go on without him, and then _she_ shows up. She sits beside him and all the tension she brings with her almost makes the rickety bench dip from the effort it exerts trying to hold it all, to hold what will inevitably become a “moment” in Stiles' life, whether he likes it or not. “Uh, hey,” he greets, feeling unsettled by the way Alison flashes a small grin and tucks her long brunette hair behind her ear,

“Hi Stiles,” she replies, her grin unwavering in a deeply uncomfortable way, for Stiles.

The silence stretches. “Well this isn't weird. Nope, not at all.” He points out, hoping it was a freak incident and that she'll wander off. He turns back to watching Scott's and Jackson's wordless, “elephant in the room”-esque pissing match taking place on the field.

Alison sighs, which almost catches his attention but not quite; the tug on his jersey sleeve however, does, and he faces her again. “Stiles, I need to talk to you. Maybe, maybe away from here?” She looks out onto the field, where Scott is watching with an expression that Stiles can't read, but before he really gets a chance to, Jackson is tackling him and Scott's expression is firmly ground into the dirt.

“Uh, I can't really leave practice.” He can feel it, he's on the edge of getting his chance to play first line, to steal the show.

Alison makes a grumpy noise, and Stiles vaguely registers her murmuring an argument with herself, before declaring—still in hushed tones—that “fine, I'll just talk to you here.”

He doesn't say it out loud, but Stiles really doesn't like the sound of that.

She carries on. “I know that you and Scott are... close,” and if that isn't an unnatural pause, Stiles will eat his lacrosse stick. “And I really respect that. I know that it seems like I'm taking up his time, but you have to know I would never want to come between that.”

“Course.” It feels weird, Stiles inwardly remarks, to feel speechless. “Where is this going?” He works out, keeping his eyes trained on the practice. When he does finally dare a glance at Alison, he's struck right in the heart by her sympathetic face, which is all doe eyes and plump lips and this sort of sorrow that's obviously directed at Stiles himself.

“I just want you to know that Scott and I have talked about this a lot, and we need you to know that neither of us would ever stop being your friend because of your life choices.”

Stiles leaps to his feet before her words have finished processing in his mind. “Woah, woah, woah, what the  _hell_ ?”

“Bilinski, keep it down!” Finstock shouts at him, and Stiles' legs give out and he drops to the bench without a snappish response. Once he's seated he scoots another inch or two away from Alison, just for good measure.

She follows him, though, and goes so far as to rest her hand firmly on his shoulder in a way that he thinks is supposed to be comforting but really only makes things worse.

Alison keeps talking, like the freak out hadn't happened. “It's perfectly okay to love whoever you want,” she assures him, and Stiles feels ready to bolt or barf, or both. “It's just that... Scott doesn't feel the same way,” and on some level her words cease to register with Stiles anymore. Her tone picks up when she takes Stiles' apparent signing off from the conversation as something else entirely, “it's not the fact that you're  _gay_ that makes him uncomfortable, so much as the whole, being in love with him part.”

And that's the real moment when Stiles silently declares the conversation over and stands again. Whatever he could have possibly thought to say dies on his tongue and he isn't in the right mind to try and revive the witty comment. Instead he brushes imaginary dirt off his uniform, nods so stiff and curt to Alison, and then all but sprints to the locker rooms.

Even once he is a “safe distance” away from the field, he can hear Alison calling for Scott, and then their combined footsteps rumbling towards him. He has half a mind, when he hears the locker room door open, to shove himself in his locker and hope for the best. He's got one shoulder and a bent knee in when Scott and Alison skid to a halt next to him.

Scott starts shouting and Stiles deems it unnecessary but he can't find his voice to say so. “Stiles! Stiles! Calm down, c'mon!” The couple corners Stiles, and that idea of shoving himself into the locker seems brighter by the second. 

Stiles zones out for a moment and when he comes back they're still shouting things that are supposed to be reassuring, but really completely  _aren't_ . So finally he cuts across them with another throaty “what the  _hell_ ?!” As his own internal freak out comes to critical levels, his voice creeps up on the register until if it went any higher he'd be on a frequency only dogs could hear. “I'm not gay! I'm  _not gay_ ! I mean, it's fine to be gay, I love Danny, he's great but—no, no, wait, no I don't  _love_ Danny, not like that!” There's a hint of a smirk on Alison's lips and it's infuriating.

Scott must pick up on his.. change in scent or something because he turns to Alison and quietly asks her to leave. Stiles turns to his locker, takes himself out of it, and begins to change.

Once the clicking of heels has faded, and Stiles is back in his favorite Batman t-shirt, Scott starts to talk. (And Stiles can feel the downhill slide begin.)

“Stiles, man, this.. you sound _surprised_.”

Stiles barely keeps his urge to hit his locker—or Scott—in check. “Of  _course_ I'm surprised! When have ever given any sort of indication that I'm  _gay_ or that I—that I—?” For what isn't the first time that day, he falters with what to say.

“That you're in love with me.” Scott says it so easily, and it's like Stiles just got slapped in the face by every kind of natural disaster. “I know, dude, that you've probably been really stressed about this,” and Stiles almost laughs because it's funny because _he wasn't until they bothered to tell him_ , “and y'know, how I'd react.” Scott rubs the back of his own neck, and even without super werewolf senses Stiles can feel the awkward rolling off him in waves. “I don't feel the same way, but—?”

Stiles interrupts what was sure to be a heartfelt and gut wrenching speech, written no doubt by Alison, about how they'll always be friends and Scott will always be there for Stiles, and that they'll move past this, right? Stiles interrupts Scott and ignores the hurt expression he gets in return. “Maybe you should go.” He tells Scott.

“What?” And wow, does Scott sound like a kicked puppy, like it's _his_ feelings that just got eaten, viciously chewed up, and then regurgitated.

“Leave.” Stiles says.

In a tone that is far wiser than Stiles has ever known him to be, Scott replies “you can't just run away from this Stiles.”

“I'm not.” He says it to bide time, to choke down his rising hysteria and to think of something that will pacify Scott's simple mind until Alison lets him in on the fact it was a blatant lie. “This, there's nothing to run from is there?” He doesn't wait for Scott's answer, “you don't like me that way and I like you that way so we'll stay friends and never talk about this again and it'll be fine. I love you, you don't love me _that way_ ,” and it's a little startling how much it hurts to say that out loud, “and the end. That's all there is to it.”

Changed, and backpack slung over his shoulder Stiles slams his locker and hates the way he relishes Scott's jump.

Scott sighs, moves his lips and sighs like he wants to say something but just  _can't_ . He simply turns and leaves without another word. Stiles shivers like someone's just dumped a bucket of ice cold water over him, yet still rests his burning face against the cool of his locker.

)

Later finds Stiles walking with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his mind on fire and reeling from each and every thought wizzing around in his head, making it harder than usual to focus. He can't pick one emotion to settle on; even though he knows the best course of action is to grow the fuck up and get over, he just  _can't_ . It feels like he fell in love and fell hard and got dumped, brutally rejected, all in one day. Which, oh wait yeah, he basically  _did._

He pauses in his walking to press the heels of his palms to his eyes, the pressure keeping him grounding in anger (at himself as well as Scott and a lot of it for Alison) rather than sliding into something else.

“What's your problem.” Comes out in a growl without any real inflection.

The squeal that slips out is one he'll later deny, and he slowly turns to face Derek. Derek Hale, who's standing with his arms crossed and the same blank yet threatening expression and strong jawline and douchey good looks. Stiles doesn't reply.

“Why aren't you driving?”

Stiles bites back something rude, because snarky comments feel too tiring even for him. “In the shop, needed a new tire.”

Derek, were he a normal person and not a creeper intent on ruining Stiles' day further, would've made some sort of manly sympathetic noise. But he didn't, because he _isn't_ normal, and Stiles really couldn't care less.

“I can't handle this right now.” Stiles snaps, throwing his hands in the air and beginning his trek home again. There's the beginning of footsteps that move to follow him, but he shouts over his shoulder, “leave me alone!”

The footsteps stop.

)

Stiles is sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching some stupid MTV show that's remaking and completely obliterating and 'revamping' a movie from the eighties and turning it into some sort of “cheeky tv show.” His dad slips into the room, and Stiles lowers his hand from it's position to throw the remote at said television show.

“I'm going to work,” his dad informs him, “don't stay up too late,” and he adds on an affectionate, “Genim,” as an after thought. His dad leans down and kisses the top of his head before he's out the door, Stiles' farewell seeing him out.

As soon as the sounds of his father's car are far off in the distance, Stiles leaps from the couch and heads into the kitchen. He drops to his knees near a cabinet by the stove, and digs around for an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels that his dad thinks he doesn't know about.

Stiles sets his phones on silent and leaves it in his room, choosing instead to keep the bottle tucked safely in hand as he clambers onto his roof to bathe in some moonlight and possible drown himself in the whiskey.

He's barely got the cap twisted off, scraping with age from being hidden and untouched for so long, when another shadow is on his roof, too. Stiles drinks anyways, knowing full well who the shadow belongs to and deciding to not give a damn.

Derek speaks up, though, of course. “Aren't you a little young to be drinking?”

Stiles raises his free hand and flips him the bird, but makes a disgusted face as the alcohol burns his throat. Derek growls and Stiles is far too proud of himself when he doesn't jump and instead only shrugs. “Don't care,” he finally answers, wondering briefly if it would appease Derek.

The roof creaks, and Derek sits in front of him, just far enough away that Stiles would have to put forth too much effort to reach him, but close enough that they can talk without disturbing the neighbors.

“What's your problem?” Derek asks again, though it sounds a little more sincere this time, if also incredibly forced.

Stiles takes a drink and looks away. “Shit.”

Derek cocks a brow but doesn't say anything. He's waiting.

“I've apparently been hopelessly in love with my best friend for _fucking ever_ and no one bothered to tell me.” The whiskey must be stronger than anticipated because Stiles honestly hadn't planned on saying that. “It would appear that _everyone except me_ knew about this. So there, that's my problem.”

“That's not all of it.” The unspoken 'but' at the beginning of the sentence irritates Stiles further and he can't place why.

“Well, how would you feel if your best friend knew before _you_ knew? His girlfriend and fuck probably Jackson too! No one bothers to tell Stiles anything because where would the fun be in _that_?” He seethes for a moment before cooling himself down by setting his throat on fire with more whiskey. “I just—Scott and I have always been friends,” and now he's pouring his heart out to a fucking werewolf, what has his life become? “We've always been the best of friends, better than anyone else because we get each other, even if he is a complete moron.”

“Not a complete one, if—”

“Finish that sentence and I'll push you off the roof,” Stiles snaps, staring at the bottle in his hands. He realizes he has no idea where the cap went but doesn't care. “I.. I thought best friends were supposed to feel that way, I thought that was _normal_.” He gets angry again, and oddly enough feels no urge to cry. “It just blows.”

He can hear creaking again, and he opens his eyes expecting Derek to have fled, but instead he's scooted minutely closer. “But you'll get over it,” he says, and the strength in his voice really does reassure Stiles. So he nods. Derek grins and it's a little terrifying but not so much anymore; he holds out his open hand, in the middle is resting the cap. Stiles takes it and twists it back onto the bottle.

He feels better, which feels weird to say. It stings, but it's more like an older cut that you accidentally brush over, rather than an open gaping wound. He looks up when he realizes he's just been staring at the bottle, Stiles makes to thank Derek—also strange, by the way—but this time he is gone.

Stiles huffs, and to think he'd been about to invite the big bad wolf inside for left over pizza.

That thought hits him full force when he drunkenly slips back into his room, and he laughs himself to sleep over the absurdity of Derek eating pizza in _his_ house.

(It should be noted that he falls asleep with the bottle of Jack Daniels in hand, yet wakes up with it missing and no angry father to answer to, only a pounding headache. In the back of his mind, Stiles knows that was probably Derek's doing since he does have a special knack for creeping into Stiles' room, but instead Stiles wallows in the misery of his hang over and resolves to thank him some other time.)

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first time ever writing Teen Wolf fic, considering it's been less than a week since I watched the entire first season in one day. Hope you liked it and I hoped it didn't suck @_@


End file.
